


If I Could Change, I Would For You

by OperaGoose



Series: Old FFNet Fics [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love, reposted by request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 10:41:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3485207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OperaGoose/pseuds/OperaGoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reposted by request, from an FF.Net backup. Lost some formatting changes but whaat can you do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Could Change, I Would For You

  
Title: If I Could Change, I Would For You  


  
Category: TV Shows » Sherlock  


  
Author: OperaGoose  


  
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T  


  
Genre: Angst/Romance  


  
Published: 04-26-11, Updated: 04-26-11  


  
Chapters: 1, Words: 1,587  


  


  
Chapter 1: Chapter 1  


  


  
Sherlock Holmes had not hated himself so much since secondary school and the common depression fuelled by hormonal changes. He lay out on the couch,  
staring up the ceiling and watching the play of streetlights on the plaster. The sight blurred and cleared and he rolled onto his side, nuzzling the wet  
patch on the couch cushion. John's cushion that still smelt of the good doctor's cologne beneath the acrid salt of Sherlock's tears.  


  
He stared at the fibres of the couch, once more deducing everything that had happened to it before this moment. He stopped after the third steam cleaning  
and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to control his hitching breath.  


  
'God damn it, Sherlock!' John had yelled, 'why can't you just look at something and appreciate it for what it is? Why do you have to ruin everything?'  


  
He tried to delete the comment, throw it out like the countless other blows people had given him. But there was a special John folder in his hard-drive,  
and he couldn't forget a single detail. Couldn't forget that joyous smile that first sent the metaphorical 'butterflies' through his stomach, or the line  
of deductions that told him he was planning to propose to Sarah tonight. Every word that John had ever spoken, kind or spiteful, flippant or barbed –  
forever on repeat in the recesses of his mind.  


  
And there had been those moments – those glorious, horrid, pivotal moments that had made and broke them as one, rather than two separate entities.  


  
The shy and almost reluctant question, on their very first night, an age ago at Angelo's. 'You don't have a girlfriend then?' The dismissal had been so  
quick, so easy – no, there had never been a female. Never would be. But the second question, to test his waters. The waters that could not even be classed  
as 'vanilla'. Questions deflected and dismissed, and John went back to his meal, all his body language reflecting his inner rejection.  


  
'John. You should know. I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any kind of...'  


  
And he hadn't been looking for it. He hadn't wanted to feel for the good doctor, but his emotions had been repressed for too long and they just couldn't  
take it any more. He fell hopelessly and stupidly in love with John.  


  
And the good doctor had just been standing there while Sherlock's heart betrayed him, just beyond the police tape, hands clasped behind his back as he  
watched with the perfect image of innocence. For the first time since childhood, he had stumbled in a speech. Lestrade had caught on immediately, of  
course.  


  
And he could only watch and love for the longest time, terrified to move and pained to wait. John had propositioned him in the end. That was moment two. It  
had tortured Sherlock's newfound love to say no – but he just wasn't that way. John had grown so sour, so angry at the rejection.  


  
The next day he'd come home after screaming at a chip-and-pin-machine.  


  
Then there was Sarah.  


  
'I'm trying to get off with Sarah!' And that's where it was. The side of John that was a devoid space in Sherlock, that made the consulting detective sick  
to the stomach to think of. He turned away, pain in his chest growing as he fled the date.  


  
He had almost allowed himself to believe that he had a claim to John, but he never had. He couldn't be what John desired, what he required – and that  
should have been the end of it.  


  
But emotions were tricky, and that's why he had never allowed them. He loved John. He hated Sarah. He hated himself. He hurt so much.  


  
Sniffling, feeling pathetic, he bit on the nail of his thumb closing his eyes and trying to will down the sobs growing in his chest.  


  
Moment Three. He'd kissed John. He'd taken John to his bed and tried to let him do what needs must. Willing at first, John had eventually caught on to his  
lack of enjoyment. He'd grown angry. 'If you didn't want to, you didn't bloody have to, Sherlock! Is this some kind of experiment to you?'  


  
John had stormed out. Sherlock feel into a mood, mind twirling inevitably towards the needle and the formula inside his mattress. So tempting, but his love  
for John forbade him. John had laid down the rules, and Sherlock had agreed, blinded by the giddiness of fresh and unburdened love.  


  
Then it was Moriarty, and their game. Sherlock could see John reach breaking point time and time again, insulted and so very, very disappointed in him. He  
couldn't care for the nameless and faceless victims of the game. He could only care for John.  


  
And then Moriarty had used his John, and for a terror-filled, timeless moment, he had known true hell. The night went up in flames, and Sherlock had not  
moved from the chair beside John's hospital bed for weeks. It didn't matter that Moriarty had gotten away, didn't matter that Lestrade was breathing down  
his neck. It only mattered that John would open his eyes.  


  
And he did. Worn blue eyes had blinked at the ceiling, unfocused, and his dry unused voice had asked: 'Sarah?' Everything they had gone through, and not a  
thought for him in those first few moments.  


  
He sat by, silent and soothing, while his questionable heart twisted in thumped painfully in his chest. He wanted to cry, but he had to wait until the good  
doctor slept. He couldn't explain, wouldn't let John know how much it was breaking him.  


  
Sarah came in as soon as she was allowed, and for the first time in twenty seven days, Sherlock left John's side.  


  
He cried, and he had made the decision to let John go.  


  
'Life or death, Sherlock,' John had explained, 'it makes you think in different ways. The little stuff doesn't matter any more.'  


  
So, John had proposed, because the little things didn't matter. Sherlock had never felt more worthless in his life. He threw himself into his work, taking  
any and every case that came in his inbox.  


  
He even willingly offered to help Mycroft out. His older brother had stared at him, expression unreadable for the longest time. Then, Sherlock found  
himself wrapped in his brother's arms. He broke then, sobbing into the tailor-made suit and wishing for once that he could just die.  


  
Months without a word, and then the good doctor had wandered into the living room like he still lived there. Sherlock had wanted to believe for just a  
moment that John and Sarah had broken off. But the contentedness that became instantly obvious shattered the hopeless illusion.  


  
After John's impromptu visit, he had stood at the window for hours, playing the violin until he physically dropped from exhaustion. The half-life  
continued. If Sherlock had been married to his work before, it was now his life.  


  
And then the invitation had come. With a short note from John tucked in as well.  


  
'You probably won't bother to RSVP, because they're boring or something, but if you could come and not delete the date – well, I'd sort of like you to be  
my best man.'  


  
That night, Sherlock had beaten a murderer bloody and spent three days in a holding cell at Scotland Yard.  


  
John had bailed him out, and the walk down the corridor was silent and tense, until John had began ranting. Every word was clearer than day, but the last  
words he spoke would haunt Sherlock forever. 'Bloody hell, you never change, do you?'  


  
Because, no. He never did. He didn't know how.  


  
He'd written out a formal RSVP to the wedding, accepting both the invitation and the request for his role as Best Man. John had smiled at him for the first  
time in a year (the smile that was like sunlight in a month of snow) and hugged him.  


  
Sherlock had savoured the contact for as long as he dared, breathing in John's clean scent and wishing he could have had this for himself.  


  
But, no. He was not what John needed. Not what he desired. Sarah was warm and caring, loving to even the newest friends. She was clever enough, charismatic  
to know how to deal with social situations with complete ease. And (if his deductions were correct), she had a healthy sexual appetite that was very  
similar to John's own.  


  
Sherlock gasped in pain as he tore his nail out of its bed, blood welling over his thumb and sluggishly pumping out of the fresh wound. He took a  
shuddering breath and deposited the last knuckle into his mouth, applying just enough suction to seal his lips.  


  
John had been disgusted with him the first time he'd done his own rudimentary first-aid preparations. He hadn't liked the way Sherlock did things.  


  
But, then, John had never really liked the way Sherlock did anything. He had tolerated it, but he had always tried to change the disapproved behaviour.  
Tried to improve him.  


  
Staring out into the empty apartment, Sherlock wished for a moment that the good doctor had succeeded.  


  



End file.
